


McGee's

by cirque



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Gen, canonical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirque/pseuds/cirque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one way or another, the four of them always come back to this bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	McGee's

**Author's Note:**

> NOT set in 'The Forever Kind' universe, k.

It was practically four in the morning and Leon was regretting every single choice to down a bottle of vodka, no matter how much he told himself that it was Chris’s fault. He crossed his eyes to keep his gaze on Sherry as she navigated her way around the drunks at the bar, five cups of coffee on her tray. She was oodled and whistled, and he told himself it was a mark of how drunk he was that he didn’t sway off his chair and lay some punches. She took it in her stride and gave as good as she got, weaving through the busy bar, and he had to stop and tell himself that she was _twenty six years old_.

          “Sherry Birkin,” he said when she reached him. He tried to pat her head but ended up swiping her shoulder, and she pushed a coffee cup in his hands. He wanted to say something with more meaning, something precise, like _oh man how did we end up here?_ , but he sipped the scalding coffee with a smile of thanks.

          “You need to sober up, dude,” she said. She’d gone through that phase of calling everyone ‘dude’ when she was a teenager, and it was one of the weapons she brought out on occasions like this to remind him precisely how old he was. “Where are the others?”

          Leon’s brain drew up blank, and images slowly fogged in that _hey, he hadn’t come here alone, and where the hell had those drunken Redfields disappeared to_? He gestured sadly to one side, where Chris and Jill were leaning against the jukebox, probably attempting to engage it in conversation. Claire was beside them, half-asleep.

          He tried to remember the way they were when he met them: younger, sillier, a whole lot less experienced; just a bunch of scared kids involved in something way too dark and much more sinister than they expected. They’d come together more frequently then, the four of them against the world, and he never felt quite right without one or more of them on the other end of a phone. He attributed it to a sixth sense, this sort of feeling of wellness that he wasn’t in this alone. Of all the crazy superpowers he’d witnessed over the years, this sixth sense was pretty darn nifty.

 

McGee’s was a cop bar, right from the start. McGee himself, all seven feet and three hundred pounds of him, was from Raccoon originally, but moved away when things started getting weird.

          “That Birkin guy is nuts,” he said one day, “he’s either going to end up in an institution or end the world, I can’t tell which.” Of course, back then, his audience had been overworked S.T.A.Rs members who didn’t know the first thing about bioterrorism. Nobody did, back then. And nobody could predict that Birkin was sitting on a time bomb and was one sleepless night away from creating the scourge of their lives.

          Except Wesker. He’d been a regular at McGee’s bar in the early days, right beside the rest of them. He could drink them all under the table, and did so most nights, except Officer Valentine, who everybody suspected could drink endless liqueur and still come out without a hangover.

          By the time Leon started visiting, it was after Raccoon, and McGee had moved to a premises the other side of the Arklay Pass. Leon was never one for bars and alcohol, and he felt weird stepping into a cop bar when he’d only been a cop for a day. And besides, he was a government agent now, and men like McGee didn’t exactly welcome agents with open arms.

          “Oh come on!” Said Claire, “it’ll be rad!” Back when Claire was just a kid and ‘rad’ was what they all said. It was February ’99, everything was cleared up with the government in terms of his and Claire’s status as fugitives, and Jill and Chris were still knocking heads about whether or not the B.S.A.A was a _cool enough_ name.

          “Well, well, missy,” McGee looked through his glasses at Claire, “are you old enough to be ordering here?”

          Claire was a zombie hunter and a biker chick, she’d been on the run for three months and clawed through sewers with her bare hands; it was hard to remember that she was still only nineteen.

          Chris wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I was told this bar would always be open to any member of the Redfield family.”

McGee had to agree to that, but he made a point of handing her a glass of coke with a pink straw in all the same.


End file.
